That Lucky One Percent
by Chewing Gum
Summary: 2005 Wren’s life was fine until the unthinkable happened. With her mother dead, she is sent to live with her previously unknown father, Willy Wonka, whose genius is only surpassed by his immaturity. And the chocolatier’s daughter wants to be a botanist...
1. Chapter 1

After the Bucket family moved into Willy Wonka's factory, things eventually settled down and became normal. Well, as normal as life with the "amazing chocolatier" can get, in any case. And Mrs. Bucket did have a hard time getting used to the tiny Sugar Starlings flying around the Chocolate Room, as they were what pollinated the candy trees, as Mr. Wonka explained once one had flown down the chimney of the little house and spread soot all over the floor once it had gotten out of the fireplace. But soon, they all learned to avoid the rooms with the red skulls and cross bones on them and to ignore the random but frequent explosions coming from the Inventing Room.

Charlie had tried going to his regular school for a while, but after being constantly hounded by the press, and his teachers and peers for days on end, he, his parents, and Willy had all decided that it was best that he be tutored inside the factory. He was free, of course, to play outside the gates whenever he wanted to, however.

Before anyone knew it, it had nearly been a year since the golden tickets had been dispersed and the great Willy Wonka's heir had been selected. And while nearly a year was important, there was something else even more important.

Charlie's birthday.

"Can't you just give me a _little _hint, Mr. Wonka?" begged Charlie. "Please?"

"Absolutely not," he insisted firmly. But with a mischievous grin, he added "But it is pretty amazing…"

"You're not helping! Just the slightest clue!"

"It's going to blow you away, that's all I'm going to say."

"It isn't fair!"

"Charlie, hush and eat your dinner," ordered his mother. "You'll get your gifts tomorrow, first thing. And you, Willy, I don't care if this big mystery gift is the state of Alaska, stop teasing the boy."

Both sank a bit lower in their seats, but the genius could help but whisper "It's something you really want…"

"_Mom_!"

Before Mrs. Bucket could respond, there was a knock at the door of the little house where the family and usually Willy had dinner. Charlie's father answered it.

It was, unsurprisingly, an Oompa Loompa. He shook of his coating of sugar dust from the sprinklers above to make it look like it was snowing before stepping inside. He handed a piece of paper to Willy.

The man scanned it, rolling his eyes before giving it back. "Go shred it or something. I don't know why I even bother with this stuff anymore."

"What was that?" Grandpa Joe asked as the Oompa Loompa exited, and Mr. Bucket shut the door behind him.

"Oh, just some girl in Canada claiming she's my daughter," he snorted. "Pass the peas, please."

"Shouldn't you be concerned or something over a thing like that?" questioned Grandma Josephine.

"Nah, I get about twenty of those letters a week. I swear, a little bit of fame and the entire world wants your genes in them just to get some money out of you. Disgraceful. The kids get blood tests, and it proves their not mine. Besides, the kids have to be at least fifteen to even be considered, since that's when I closed up the factory, so they've lost that 'All I want is to meet my Daddy' quality." He paused in the action of dishing out the round, green vegetables. "Still…"

"Still what?" prodded Charlie.

"Usually these kids have a mother behind them pushing them out into the spotlight and feeding some sob story into them. The letter said this kid's mother up and died and left my name in her will as her father."

"Shame," Mrs. Bucket sighed. "A real shame. But please, eat up, before the food gets cold."

The next morning, the artificial sunlight woke Charlie. He stretched before leaping out of bed and down the stairs.

His mother was cooking up a special breakfast of pancakes and sausages. "Good morning, dear. And happy eleventh birthday."

"Is Mr. Wonka here yet?" he needed to know.

As if on cue, the mentioned candy man burst through the door, clad in his bright purple velvet jacket. "Ah, what a lovely day it is! Morning, all!"

"Good morning, Mr. Wonka," Charlie replied politely. "Can I _please _see my present now? _Please_?"

Looking confused, he inquired "What present?"

"My birthday present!"

"Your… Oh, is that today?" He smacked himself on the forehead. "Dang it, I plum forgot."

"Stop being such a bloody tease, Wonka," advised Mr. Bucket, emerging from the bedroom and straightening his tie.

"Alright, alright. Sheesh. Can't blame a person for trying, can you? Bring it in, boys!"

Two Oompa Loompas came into the house, carrying a wrapped box about as big as a medium-sized T.V. There were air holes in the top.

"That had _better _not be from Loompa Land," warned Mrs. Bucket.

"No, a little closer to home," Wonka assured her. "Go ahead, Charlie, open it! I know you'll love it!" He seemed almost as anxious for Charlie to open it as Charlie was to open it.

He slit the paper open over the top and opened the flaps. No sooner had he done so then a ball of brown fur hurtled towards him, knocking him flat on his back.

Willy clapped his hands together. "So, do you not love him?"

Charlie got a hold on the ball of fur, and held it out so he could look at it. "A dog! A dog of my very own! Oh, thank you, Mr. Wonka, thank you!"

"I'm so glad you like it!" he grinned. "He's a purebred chocolate Labrador!"

"What else?" groaned Grandpa George.

"What's his name, Mr. Wonka?"

"He doesn't have one yet. I thought maybe you'd like you name him?"

The boy thought of the one thing that had changed his life forever. It had gotten he and his family out of the cold and into a sweet wonderland. It had also led to the reuniting of Mr. Wonka and his father.

"Ticket," he finally said with a grin. "His name is Ticket."

"Sounds like you should have gotten the boy a Golden Retriever," joked Grandpa Joe.

"A dog in a chocolate factory?" Grandpa George inquired. "Isn't that a little… unhygienic?"

"Oh, he's perfectly trained," assured Willy. "Plus, I invented an annual pill animals can take to stop them from shedding. Fur only comes out when you brush them. I've been working on it for months." Changing the subject just as quickly, as he had obviously gotten bored of it, he exclaimed, "Hey, why don't we have a picnic breakfast? I blew all the sugar off last night."

"You could make millions from that pill, you know," Mr. Bucket advised, as he helped his wife pack up the meal to take outside. "You shouldn't just limit yourself solely to candy and chocolate."

"I have enough millions," was the unconcerned reply. "And I like candy and chocolate."

Ten minutes later, the family and the candy man had set into their meal on the banks of the chocolate river. The boiled sweet boat was docked and the waterfall and the noises from the machinery made a pleasant backdrop.

Charlie and Ticket were chasing each other all over the swudge grass, and the rest of the family was simply enjoying the perfect meal and the beautiful setting.

An Oompa Loompa emerged from a back room, holding a cordless phone that seemed comically large grasped in his tiny hand. He tugged on Willy's sleeve, pressing the phone, on hold, towards him.

He tried to push it away. "I'm out right now, no business calls."

Still, the small being insisted.

Finally, he took the phone, sighing deeply. He pressed the button, opening the line. "Hello, Willy Wonka of Wonka Enterprises here." There was a pause as the other person spoke. "Yes, but you must understand that … You're joking. … You're not? But surely there must be some … A blood test? Are you serious? … So what does that mean?"

The family didn't hear the response, but whatever it was it must have been powerful because seconds later, the great chocolatier went into a dead faint.

"Mr. Wonka? Mr. Wonka, can you hear me?"

The voice was faint, but familiar. Willy blinked, trying to bring the dark, blurry shapes above him into focus. Where was he? What had happened?

"Mr. Wonka, are you alright?"

He replied with what he hoped was a positive groan as he tried to sit up. The strong hand of Mr. Bucket was on his back, helping him until he was sitting cross-legged on the swudge grass, his head hanging low and his face paler than usual.

"What happened?"

"You passed out," Mr. Bucket shrugged.

"Oh, that explains everything! You know, I had the craziest dream! We were all out here eating breakfast, and then I answered the phone, and this woman told me something that's simply impossible! But, silly me, just a dream!"

"That was all real, I'm afraid," said Grandpa Joe. "What did the person on the telephone say? We tried to contact them after you fainted, but they had hung up and the number was unlisted."

"It… It was real?" he stammered, a look of childish fear on his face. "But… But it can't be! It just can't be!"

Charlie rested a hand on his mentor's shoulder. "What did they say, Mr. Wonka?"

"That girl in Canada had a blood test, they have my DNA on file in the computers so I don't have to travel every time a claim pops up." He swallowed hard before continuing. "It came back positive. She's my daughter. Holy hardballs, I'm a f… a fa… I've got a kid!


	2. Chapter 2

Eventually, Willy Wonka got over the enormous shock, and his initial fear turned to curiosity. Some of his questions were answered by the e-mail that followed an hour after the phone call. In it was a picture of the girl and a short explanation of her history.

"Wren Beatrice Samson," Charlie read from the printout in Mr. Wonka's office. It had been a little hard to get that paper out intact. While the boy had no idea why the half-computer even worked, it only printed half the page. Finally, he had changed the formatting so all the words were on the right side. Who knew school computer lessons would actually have some value?

"Born November 3rd, 1990 in Victoria, British Columbia, Canada. Mother, Janette Catherine Samson, deceased since January 27th, 2005 after a long bout of tuberculosis. Father, listed on the birth certificate as unknown, later suspected and confirmed to be William Ashley Wonka."

Here, the boy paused. "I never knew your middle name was Ashley, sir…"

He blushed slightly, crossing his arms like a bratty child. "My father had a sister named Ashley, pick a bone with him."

"Ashley is a unisex name!" insisted Grandpa George. "My father's name was Ashley!"

Charlie continued before an argument could break out. "Attends Oakwood Private Academy in Victoria with the money she inherited from her late grandfather. Apparently he was a big investor. Owned shares in Alberta oil, and he used to own a large part of…" He looked up. "Wonka Enterprises?"

"It's a _loooong _story," Willy sighed. "Just get on with it, please?"

"She gets good grades, very good grades. She got a medal for sciences a year back. Not into any school activities that I can see, but she's a member of the Victoria Horticultural Club."

"Heh heh, horticultural," giggled the chocolate maker. "Sounds dirty…"

"Well, technically it is, in a manner of speaking. Horticulture is the study and growing of plants," Mrs. Bucket gently explained.

"There's not much else, except that, since she has no other relatives except some very distant cousins several times removed, she's coming here on the first of February."

"She looks so… _serious_," Willy frowned, picking up the picture.

It was a school photo, profiling the shoulders up. She was dressed in a black blazer, a white shirt, and a copper and black striped tie, apparently the school uniform. Resemblances to her father were apparent, the most obvious being the exact same deep purple eyes and the same colour brown hair that curled up slightly at the ends. Her skin was even the semi-pale shade of Wonka's. Her cheekbones were high, like her father's, but her features were sharper and her nose was definitely different. But Willy was right, she did look serious. Not even a trace of a smile was on her face.

"Oh, you know those uppity private schools," scoffed Grandpa Joe. "They probably make them pose like that so they'll look like little adults when they're not and they're not supposed to be!"

Wonka's scowl softened, and he finally smiled and nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, that's probably it! After all, she's my daughter! How serious can she be? She probably burst out laughing right after this was taken! And those colours… So drab! You think they'd pick something a bit happier for a school uniform."

"Schools like that aren't suppose to make children happy, they're supposed to make them smart."

"Well spoken! Well spoken, indeed! No wonder you used to work for me!" Most of the anxiety he had harboured over parenthood had flown out the window and been replaced with eagerness. "I can't wait for her to get here! I'm sure she'll love the factory! The first, you said? Why, that's only a week away! There's so much time, and so little to do!" He paused. "Wait… Strike that, reverse it."

The next day, the papers were reporting the incredible event of the discovery of Willy Wonka's daughter. It was right there on the first page, above the murder of three men in a pool hall. "Illegitimate daughter of Candy Man Wonka in Canada".

"Well, that can't be good for business," sighed Willy, adding four heaping spoonfuls of sugar to his coffee.

"This is the 21st century," Mr. Bucket scoffed. "I'm sure no one will care."

He turned the page, where bold letters proclaimed "Southern Baptist Churches Boycott Wonka Candy."

"Dang."

"I still don't think it's a problem, Willy. The same church boycotted Disney for nine years, and they're still going strong."

"Why Disney?"

"They were upset that they gave benefits to homosexual employees."

"Well, that's just stupid."

Mr. Bucket shrugged. "Tell them that. They've proven themselves rather prone to throw things when they're angry. They believe in 'Let he who is perfect cast the first stone', and they think that's them."

"Just forget about them," advised his wife, setting an English muffin topped with strawberry jam in front of him. "Have you decided what room she'll stay in?"

"Well, I was looking up some of that plant stuff, and it said that indoor plants get more sunlight if they're in a north or east-facing window, so I found the perfect room! It's facing east, and it's that one with the wall of one-way windows, so if she has plants, they'll be sure to get enough sun."

"That's thoughtful of you."

"I know! There's just the basics in there now, though. Plain curtains, bed covers, stuff like that. I suppose I'll let her decorate it to her taste once she gets here, since I don't know what she likes." He paused, ripping a piece off of the English muffin with his teeth. "Do you think she'll like living here in the factory?"

"I do," smiled Charlie. "And I'm not even related to you. Besides, what kid wouldn't love to live here?"

He smiled slightly, nodding. "Thanks, Charlie. I guess you're right, as usual. Besides, not much we can do about it until she gets here…"

January 31st, and a red-eyed flight to the city made famous by the Wonka factory. Neither was very pleasant, the first being rather wet and dreary in almost every place in the northern hemisphere and the second being naturally unpleasant even on the best of days.

First class was a lonely one. There was a grand total of four passengers there, considering that most people who could afford to fly first class wouldn't stand for flying at such an unholy hour.

Fredrick Peter-Paul was from new money, being a partner in a company that harvested plants from the sea and made vitamins out of them. He had been booked for an earlier flight, but had missed it due to the traffic jam after his meeting in Victoria. He had gotten on the next flight, even though it stopped over in the "Chocolate City", as it had come to be known. He wanted to be back in Chicago, with his family.

He was unable to sleep, and instead glanced around at his fellow passengers.

One in a seat near the back of the section was a plump man with thinning black hair in a business suit, sleeping. His black leather briefcase lay beside him. The second was a woman a few seats ahead of the man, and wore a rather ugly lime green dress and gold earrings. She too was asleep.

The last passenger was across from him in the seat away from the window. There was nothing really remarkable about her, apart from the fact that she was a teenager. She wore a simple white blouse and straight black denim pants. A blue ball cap was pulled down over her eyes. Peter-Paul, an avid hockey fan, recognized it to be a Toronto Maple Leafs hat. Her brown hair fell to her shoulders, curling up a little at the very ends, probably the result of a hot iron. Her pale face seemed a bit green, and her breathing was short and nervous.

"I take you don't like flying," he said, before he could stop himself.

"Right on the money," muttered the girl, massaging the bridge of her nose. "It makes me dizzy. I don't actually get sick, but I feel horrible."

"I have some Gravol in my bag, if you want it."

"I've tried everything on the market, nothing works. Thanks, though. Although I would have my doubts about taking drugs from a stranger…"

He chuckled. "I guess so. I'm Fredrick Peter-Paul, I'm in the seaweed business." He stood up and crossed the aisle, offering his hand."

"Wren," she replied, shaking his hand rather weakly, evidence of her state. She raised the brim of her cap to reveal two unmistakable deep purple eyes.

"I know you!" exclaimed Peter-Paul. "I saw you on the news! You're Wonka's kid!"

"I'd really appreciate it if you kept that on the down-low, pal. My life's been a media circus for the past few days, and I really feel like I'm the freak show."

"Ah…" He'd never thought about how the person on the other end of the television felt, being gaped at by the masses like a sideshow act. "I understand. Well, not really. What I mean is, I won't sell this story to the papers for my fifteen minutes of fame."

"'preciate it," she grinned, flashing a sliver of straight, white teeth. Those teeth were the result of three years of braces, several thousand dollars, and countless Tylenol.

"I'm sorry about your mother," started the man, instantly wishing he'd said anything but that.

Back down went the ball cap. "What's gone is gone. I'd rather not talk about it."

"But talk about winning the genetic lottery, eh? I mean, _the _Willy Wonka is your father! Have you ever met him or heard for him or anything?"

"He didn't know I existed, and I didn't care he existed. That's the way it's been for over fifteen years, and I was beginning to get used to it. Now…" She shook her head slightly. "I've seen him on TV, and he looks like a complete loon. Personally, I don't think he's all there."

"Well, he is a genius. Aren't all genii a little on the edge?"

"He turned a girl into a _blueberry_!" she protested, the newspaper articles she had read a year ago running in her mind, just as they had done ever since she had been told who her father was. "I think that's a little harsh for chewing gum, don't you? I don't care how bratty a kid is, she doesn't deserve to be a fruit!"

"From what the others said, that girl took the gum when Wonka told her not to. It was her own fault."

"Yeah, but he knew she was a gum-chewer! Why would he tempt her like that? Like her tempted that boy into something that was only desribed at ' television-related equipment', and he walked out of that factory ten feet tall! He knew their weakness, and he exploited them! He set them up to fail! He's some kind of a…" She paused, not wanting to describe her own father as a devil. "A madman," she finished rather weakly.

"But there was the fifth child, that Bucket kid. He became Wonka's heir! Hey… Since there's a biological heir now, what's going to happen to that boy? Are you going to be the heir to the chocolate factory? Just think! I could tell my grandchildren I met the second generation of genius chocolatiers!"

"I don't even want to think about it!" moaned Wren, pulling her cap even further down. "I don't want to make chocolate or candy! Sure, I like the stuff just fine, but it doesn't consume my life! I don't want to lock myself away in a factory and make novelties for the rest of my days!"

The man was surprised at the outburst. "… I didn't mean it like that. I'm sorry if I upset you."

"Yeah, well this is a rather upsetting period in my life, okay?" she scowled. "It's not you, it's just the world. I'm scared, okay? I'm scared to meet my father. What if he hates me? What if he does something to me, like he did to those kids?"

"Do you stuff yourself constantly?" he asked quietly.

"No!" snapped Wren, sitting up straight. "Is that a weight crack, buddy? Because if I scream bloody murder and rape, the judge is going to believe me!"

"No, no, no!" he assured her. "You're not fat." Teenage girls! Sheesh! "Are you a rich, spoiled brat?"

"Comfortable middle class, I did chores for allowance, and if I didn't get it I'd do them anyway. The one and only thing my mom splurged on was private schooling for me."

"Do you chew gum?"

"Never been overly fond of the stuff."

"A TV junkie?"

"Sometimes the Discovery Channel, and reruns of Gilligan's Island and Will and Grace when I'm bored out of my skull and I can't find a book. Ellen's not bad, either."

Peter-Paul smiled. "Then I think you'll be just fine. Unless Wonka's got some blood feud over… What did the papers say you were into?"

"Botany and horticulture."

"I seriously doubt it. Besides, think of all the secrets that factory holds. And you'll get to see them! It's every kid's dream! Especially since the eight who went in there and came out didn't say a lot about it."

"Probably because Wonka had thugs on them…" muttered Wren, but she nodded. "Thanks, Mr. Peter-Paul. I feel a little better. About meeting my father, not about flying. I'll still dizzy as hell over that."


	3. Chapter 3

"What do you mean, 'Mr. Wonka, sir, I don't think it's a good idea to use those dolls'? For one thing, they're _puppets_, not dolls! And why not?"

"All I'm saying is that this girl just lost her mother, and she's coming to meet her last living relative," Charlie explained gently. "I just think that it'd be a bit… rude… to greet her with those doll, er, puppets."

"But that song is so catchy!" protested Willy.

"Let me put it this way, Mr. Wonka," Grandpa Joe said, resting a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Those puppets haunted me more than anything that happened to the other children."

"Well, alright…" he finally relented, seeming a bit hurt. "I guess I won't use them. Besides, I haven't quite figured out yet how to keep the fireworks and avoid burning the whole thing down." He quickly brightened, however. "But do you think she could see them later, when she's more comfortable here?"

"Of course," nodded Charlie. "After all, it's still your factory. Providing you don't burn the place down."

"Oh, I'll figure it out sooner or later. I think I'm getting pretty close now."

Wren Samson stepped out of the hotel, and instantly felt the dead chill that had set in over the night. She pulled her long black dress coat around her as she stepped into the limousine her father had sent, her purple eyes blinking furiously as a dozen lights from cameras flashed in her face. She quickly shut the door and was lost behind the tinted window.

She had gotten in at three thirty, and a cab had taken her to a five star hotel suite where she had been able to catch a few hours sleep. She awoke at seven, and had gotten ready, both physically and mentally, for the ordeal ahead. After that, she had just paced and tried to occupy herself with her current books, _The Red Green Book _and _The Rose After the Thorns: Breeding Roses for Experienced Gardeners. _She also listened to a lot of show tunes. That's what she did when she was nervous. Or upset. Or happy, for that matter.

The girl touched the metal box she had hidden under her coat. She didn't want the press to see it, because they would want to know what was in it. Wren herself didn't even know what was in it. Her mother had given it to her, she had said to give it to her father.

She sighed, leaning back onto the plush black vinyl. She felt sick, like she always did right before a music exam or a performance. And this wasn't something you could make yourself faint and get out of it. As much as she hated to admit it, she had gotten out of at least five concerts that way. Never an exam, though.

It was fifteen minutes to six, pm, and they were about ten minutes away from the factory. It would have been so ironic if it was ten o'clock. Everyone knew that ten o'clock am on February 1st had been the day the great chocolate factory had been closed, and on the same time and date fifteen years later, it had been opened again to those ten people.

__

I wonder what he's doing right now… she thought to herself. _This is probably just a slight inconvenience for a man like him. He's probably just heading out of another room right now to make it to the door on time to meet me._

Actually, Willy Wonka had been up since five, pacing his room for nearly an hour before spending nearly another hour getting his hair just right. Normally it only took half an hour. He was more vain about his long locks than most women were. After that, it was dressing in his favourite plum-coloured jacket and his lavender gloves that squeaked just a bit and reminded him of his father's dentist gloves. Next his hat, situated just so on his head, and then his candy-filled cane that he didn't need but carried around for show. He tried to go about business as usual, but his head was in the clouds. Only a few quick Oompa-Loompas saved him from a rather nasty incident with the Exploding Sweets.

He was so nervous on his way to the main hallway that it was a miracle in itself that he didn't run face first into the glass elevator as he had done so many times before. Charlie had started keeping count, actually, and on the clear wall was a tally in window markers totalling eleven. Of course, they were erased every month, and there were two elevators.

The great glass box stopped two floors before, and Charlie himself stepped in, dressed in a bluish suit that actually looked rather nice on him.

"Nervous?" the boy asked as the elevator zipped off. Both had grown used to it, although a bar had been installed so that he could hold on.

"Well that's the understatement of a lifetime," he replied, frowning slightly, checking his reflection in the glass. "I look alright, right? My hair's okay?"

"Your hair is fine, Mr. Wonka, and so are your clothes and your teeth and everything else. I'm sure Wren is going to love you. After all, if I were meeting my father for the first time, I'd certainly be glad for it."

The door of the limousine swung open, and the flashing lights started once more. The girl stepped out, the heel of her black shoe breaking though a thin puddle of ice. She lifted her head, and her thin brown hair fell away to reveal eyes that held a trace of fear. She glanced at the factory door for a split second before her gaze darted to the ground.

Every paper in the city seemed to be there, and they all wanted a clean shot of her face. Microphones were pushed towards her, but their wielders were pushed back by the police, as were those who were waving signs painted with the likes of "Boycott Immoral Wonka!" and "Chocolatiers Should Be Choosey!"

Wren was blinking rapidly against the bright lights, but she caught a glimpse of a sign that made her blood boil.

"Wonka, Out of Wedlock with a Whore!"

She walked past, however, although a quick hand motion, seemingly to move back a strand of her hair, was actually used to wipe away several tears.

As soon as she was through the great iron gates, they closes and the factory doors opened. There stood Willy Wonka, his malt silver coat open to reveal his best purple jacket and his neo-Victorian garb.

Wren looked up, nearly raising an eyebrow. She had been half-expecting the dolls. Walking up the steps, she finally faced the man her mother had cursed for over fifteen years.

The sole thought that flashed through her mind was: _How in the hell did Mom fall for a wing-nut like this?_

A wide grin shot across Willy's pale face. "Hi, Wren! I'm so glad to finally meet you! I hope you'll be happy in the factory!" He opened his arms, anticipating a hug. This was rare for him, usually he avoided physical contact. Perhaps the nature of parenthood was getting to him already…

Instead of leaping into his arms in a flurry of tears with a swell of music played on thirty-some violins in the background, however, Wren grasped his left hand in her own, shaking it. "Thank you, Mr. Wonka, and thank you for taking me in, as well."

On the outside, he was still smiling, although it had been subdued a shade and his right arm had dropped limply by his side. Inside, however, he was downright put off. _Mr. Wonka! Mr. Wonka is my father! Well, actually, my father is Dr. Wonka, but…_

The two entered the factory, and the massive doors slammed shut behind them.

"Just drop your coat anywhere," said Willy, gesturing to the area in general. "My, uh, staff, will get it later. Your things beat you here, they're already in your room. I thought I'd show you where you'll be staying, and then give you a little tour of the factory. Sound good?"

"I'd like that, Mr. Wonka," she replied stiffly, tentatively placing her long coat on the floor and hugging the metal box to her chest. Underneath she was wearing a black pleated skirt and a white blouse that didn't seem to differ so much from her school uniform. She noted that it was hot, but didn't ask why. She figured maybe Americans were more sensitive to the cold.

"Oh, and about the whole _Mr. Wonka _thing… You can call me… You know, _Dad _or something, if you want. I'm not really used to the title, but it sounds a bit more… right, you know?"

Wren's answer was careful, almost rehearsed. And perhaps it had been. "Until we know each other and have a relationship beyond that of the biological bond, I'd feel more comfortable with 'Mr. Wonka'."

The man was visibly crestfallen. "Oh, yeah, I guess that's best. I mean, we just met, and I don't know you and you don't know me, so… Yeah." He straightened his jacket in an attempt to look business-like. "Come this way, Wren. Or would you prefer 'Miss Sampson'?"

She caught the barbed sarcasm, but she knew she deserved that. "Wren is fine, _Mr. Wonka_. Lead the way."

Mrs. Bucket heard the conversation from the end of the hallway where she stood with her family. _Oh, my,_ she thought to herself. _That didn't go well at all. Poor Willy…_

"You've probably seen Charlie and his family on the news, but this is them," the candy man introduced, still acting stiff and professional, which didn't suit him at all. "Mr. and Mrs. Bucket, Grandpa Joe, Grandma Josephine, Grandpa George, and… Well, Grandma Georgina thinks she's a sheep-talker right now, so she's probably in the Cotton Candy Room…"

Wren seemed confused. "Why would there be sheep in the…" Maybe she was already expecting the worst in the factory, or maybe it was the Wonka genes in her, but she immediately recalled how much cotton candy looked like wool. A look of disgust shot across her face. She had eaten Wonka cotton candy! "That's disgusting!"

"Oh, it's hygienic and everything," her father assured her. "FDA standards. As for the sheep, well, it's a funny story. I might tell you some time. Come now, time to see your room!"

The girl made a vow to herself not to eat anything in the factory unless she knew what was in it and what it had grown on. She followed the man, who had just looked over his shoulder.

"Heh, purple eyes. Bet you hated those growing up. I know I did."

__

Well. That was random. Then again, he's _random…_ "I did get teased a bit, so I just started wearing colour contacts, and… Watch out!"

Willy Wonka stepped face-first into the glass elevator for the umpteenth time. He pulled away, the breaking of the suction giving a slightly _pop_. "Yeah, I sorta meant to do that…"

Charlie sighed, pulling a marker from his jacket pocket, opening the elevator, and making another mark on the glass wall. "You get used to it after a while. Trust me."

"Uh huh…" That was the sole response she could formulate. _How the _hell _could my mother have set her sights on an idiot like this? She could have done so much better! Hey, he might have been a gigolo. Then she should have gotten her money back_

Both got into the elevator, and Willy pushed a button with the end of his cane. It went up, somewhat slowly for the elevator.

As they ascended, Wren gazed out in wonder at the floors they were passing. A room with giant pillow-shaped marshmallows, a room that was dark but had what seemed to be glow-in-the-dark lollypops illuminating it, and a swimming pool that was filled with pink lemonade. So it was no surprise that she nearly jumped out of her skin when the candy man rapped the metal box with his cane.

"What's in that?" he asked, apparently just noticing it.

She had forgotten all about it. "My mom, she told me to give this to you. I don't know what's in it, actually."

He took it, examining it carefully. It was a rather plain box, red with a silver pattern on the top and sides. It looked cheap, in all honesty. He was about to open it when the elevator jerked sideways. Willy, used to it, managed to keep his balance. His daughter, however, was flung face-first against the thick glass.


End file.
